Come Sing About Love
by Rabid RENThead
Summary: Series of MarkRoger songfics... Mimi breaks up with Roger, leaving him lonely and desperate for love.
1. Behind These Hazel Eyes

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent or Behind These Hazel Eyes, and yes, I know Adam Pascal doesn't have hazel eyes, but my Roger for this story does, just 'cause I have artistic liberties and I'm using them, dammit!

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AN: I felt like writing a fic that ACTUALLY HAD A PLOT gazp Actually, I had no inspiration, so I decided to do chapters to go with the songs on my Eargasm (don't ask) playlist on my iPod-chan I love my iPod. Her name is Angel Dumott Schunard, because it said to name my iPod so I decided she was Angel in iPod form Anyway, yeah, I'm obsessive… ; Well, enjoy! I know it's short, but I'm just kinda setting up the story. Ooh, and anyone who gets the title reference gets a cookie!

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_Here I am, once again_

_I'm torn into pieces_

_Can't deny it, can't pretend_

_Just thought you were the one_

_Broken up deep inside_

_But you won't get to see the tears I cry_

_Behind these hazel eyes_

- Behind These Hazel Eyes, Kelly Clarkson

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When Mark walks in, at first I try to hide the fact that I'm blubbering like a baby. Books are very useful for this. But when he alerts me to the fact that my book is upside-down, my cover is most definitely blown. "Fine," I say, "You caught me. Now what do you want?"

"I came to ask you if you wanted to go get dinner with me, Maureen, and Joanne, but now I want to know what you were crying about." I don't want to tell him. I'm sick of him always trying to fucking comfort me. I want him to figure it out after Mimi stops visiting and fades out of our lives. I want him to act like it's the most normal thing, that we just kinda fell apart and it's not a big deal. But he won't, and I know it, and he knows it, and I have to tell him.

"Mimi broke up with me."

"What?" He seems surprised. Why? We were fighting all the time; even after Christmas, nothing got better.

"She broke up with me. Said she couldn't deal with my paranoia. But how could I not be? How could I fucking not be when she leaves the loft at night almost every week and comes back the next afternoon in the same trashy lingerie she wears to work and she gets "mysterious marks" on her neck that she thinks her make-up hides and bloodshot eyes and fresh track marks and she's going into that alley where the man works? Did she think I didn't notice that she was using again? She's just so fucking blind!" By the end of this, I'm screaming, and Mark has sat down next to me on the window seat, and his arms around my shaking body. "She's just too weak to stop," I whimper. "Too fucking weak!"

Mark smooths my hair. It feels nice; Mimi never did that. She never did anything but buy her stupid drugs. Mark is more comforting than Angel or Collins would be if they were still here, and even more comforting than Mimi was when Angel passed away in October and Collins wasted away 2 months later. "Shh… it's gonna be okay, Roger… she'll… she'll come back to you… everything will be alright." He's wrong, I know it. She's never coming back.

She's gone.


	2. Anyone Alive With a Sex Drive

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent!

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AN: I opened up my playlist, and whaddayaknow, LVB B was next! This took some thinking for how I was gonna integrate it…

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_Anyone alive with a sex drive  
Tear down the wall, aren't we all?_  
- La Vie Boheme B, Rent, Jonathan Larson

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It's been a week or two since Mimi broke up with me. I'm losing track. I've been wallowing in self pity and horniness. Yes, horniness. Let's say I miss Mimi in more ways than one. And when I see her heading off to work when I look out the window and I know that under her clothes she's in her trashy lingerie, it doesn't help much. I haven't been lonely like this since Christmas Eve last year. I feel like Mark. Maybe I should try filming things; maybe that's his cure. I hear the shower turn off and then Mark comes into the main room in just a towel that's slowly slipping… no, Roger, that's something else talking, not your brain. "What are you doing out here in just a towel… all dripping wet…?" 

"I forgot to put some clean clothes in the bathroom to put on, so I need to get some. Excuse my near-nudity…" I excuse it. I encourage it. When he walks into his room, I can almost see his butt, if only the towel would slide a little… shut UP, Roger. He's a guy. Shit, now he's coming back out, still in a towel… "Looks like everything's in the laundry… mind if I borrow something of yours?"

"Yeah, sure," I mumble, still transfixed by that little trail of hair near the bottom of his stomach. Shut up, shut up, shut up. I think I remember doing laundry a day or two ago, but I don't question him. He walks back out in a rather tight -shut up, Roger- Ramones shirt and baggy pants with a chain on them. They look good on him. Shut up. I should film something, some girls, some hot girls that are not my roommate or my best friend and don't have a dick. Maybe I'll get lucky tonight. No, I'll just be thinking of Mimi, or of Mar – shut up! You don't like guys, remember, Rog? You're STRAIGHT. Straight as an arrow, straight as a pole, straight as a shut up, Roger, you know where this train of thought is going: straight to the gutter. Next stop: the depths of desperate horniness, all aboard! "Hey, Mark, can I borrow your camera?"

"Um..."

"C'mon, I promise I won't break it..."

"Oh, okay. But BE CAREFUL."

"Yes, mommy." He laughs. I laugh. Why have I never noticed how infectuous his laugh is before? Or how blue his eyes are? Or how his hair is just ruffled enough to be tousled and not messed-up, or how his neck is so smooth-looking and perfect for shut up, Roger! Ugh. I HAVE to get out of the house. I grab his camera and all but run out the door. Shit, shit, shit! What if he saw me staring at him and thought that I _like_ him? I don't like him! I don't, don't, don't! Now, Roger, let's go find some nice hot trashy girls with humungous boobs and film them and maybe take one home. Good idea.

I film girls for about half an hour, but am unable to get even one of them to as much as speak to me. Next time I won't bring the camera. What was I thinking? It does keep my mind off how horny I am, though; I'm focusing on zooming and panning and winding the little thing on the side and not jerking it around. This does work. This must be how Mark gets by without a girlfriend. Personally, I'd rather write music, but no girl equals no inspiration equals musician's block 24/7. I guess I should go back now, because I feel my skin beginning to roast in the sun, even though it's the fucking middle of Febuary. Or is it February? Who knows? Collins would, but he's not here, it's just me and Mark, and Maureen and Joanne when they're speaking. I don't know why Joanne doesn't just dump Maureen's ass. Maybe for the same reason as I'm gawking at Mark, maybe because she loves that flirt.

Shit, now I'm home, which means Mark will be there in that shirt and those pants and shut up. I walk in the door, and he's lying all stretched out on the couch in that shirt and those pants and the pants are kinda slipping so I can see the bones of his hips and maybe if I sneak up and grab his waist and shut up, you don't really want to kiss him, and you know it! I poke his stomach and he wakes up. "Here's your camera back, Marky!" Why did I call him Marky?

"Why did you call me Marky?" Shit, I don't know, is that a pet name? Do I want to call him a pet name, is that it? Pet names are for... oh my god, am I in love with Mark? No, I'm not in love with Mark. I'm not. Guys love girls, girls love guys. Unless you're Collins or Angel or Maureen or Joanne, but I'm not them and I can't be. I'm normal, I'm straight, not bi, not gay. "Hello? Roger?"

"Oh, yeah, just... uh... wanted to see... how you'd react... yeah, that's it, testing your reaction!"

"Interesting." He lays back down again and his -my, oh my god, he's wearing my- shirt slides up a little more and I want him to just take it off and his pants and shut up, no you don't. Ugh, I should go to my room and be alone before my thoughts progress any further. Before I leave I grab that stupid afghan that Mark's mom knitted and put it on top of him, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead. What the fuck, Roger? Just shut up.


	3. He Healeth Thine Infirmnities

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent or Bless the Lord; these belong to Jonny and Stephen Schwartz, respectively

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AN: Umyeah, Bless the Lord is a song from Godspell… the reason it's on my Eargasm playlist is because A. It's a good song, despite the fact that I'm not religious, and B. It's Shoshana Bean, and she love in this song. I didn't incorporate the whole song very well, but same thing with the last chapter… just found a line that worked and went with it. It talks about healing, so I was like, "omg Sick!Marky!" Anyway, this was so fun to write, and I'm pretty sure you guys will like it, too

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_He healeth thine infirmnities  
And ransoms thee from death_  
- Bless the Lord, Godspell, Stephen Schwartz

I wake up to a throbbing head, and I'm not breathing. My nose isn't taking in air; it's stuffed with something… cotton or snot? The latter; of this I am sure. I panic, but then I open my mouth. Ahh, there we go. I haven't had a nose this blocked-up since... last spring. Allergies suck. I am ready to go on a quest for The Almighty Claritin, but discover that I can't open my eyes. They're glued shut, presumably from that nasty eye-crud I always get too much of when I'm sick. Solution: find Roger, persuade him to bring me a hot cloth so I can get my eyes unglued… or rip out my eyelashes. I decide firmly on the former. "Roger!" What I expected to be a yell comes out as a raspy croak. I manage to call his name as loud as I can, and eventually Roger is silhouetted against the backs of my eyelids. "Gan… gan'ou ged be a gloth and soag it in hod wader? I dink I'b sick…" His hand is cold as he presses the back of it to my forehead.

"God, Mark, you're hot!" Really? Wait, he means my fever. "What do you want a hot cloth for?"

"By… by eyes…" I croak. He feels my eyes and notices the fact that my lashes are glued shut. He runs his hand down my cheek, and it feels cool and soft; I had expected it to be rough with calluses, but it feels nice.

"Okay, Mark, I'll be right back. Don't move. I'll bring you the sheet from my bed too, and see if I can find some other blankets lying around." It feels like he's gone for forever and I'm spending an eternity listening to him rummage through the cabinets and drawers. Finally he's back, and he begins to wrap me in a cocoon of three sheets and the wool afghan mom knitted for me Christmas before Christmas before last; before hot-plate, after itchy puke-green sweater. I find myself enjoying his gentle touch, and as he wipes at my eyes, holding my chin gently to keep my head still, it feels like I'm a kid again, being looked after by mommy, and she'll be back from her trip to the store in a few minutes with candy - a being-sick treat - and new books, not paperback but hard-cover, for her poor, sweet baby. And later, once my fever breaks, I'll eat chicken-and-stars while watching animated animal movies. I open my eyes and see Roger, gazing down at me with an almost motherly look on his face. The light shining in behind him makes him glow, like my own angel. He drapes towels across the curtain bar over the window to block out the light, and pulls up a chair next to my bed. He gently places his hand on my forehead again, then moves it to my cheek and neck. "Still hot…" he murmurs. "Do you want anything? Water?"

"Glaridin," I croak "And sobe ize wader"

"Sure thing, Marky," he says softly, and leaves for the bathroom. I hear him opening the cabinet that once had a mirror on it but now features only a few shards of broken glass still stuck to it and grabs the Claritin (top shelf, far right; I always put it in the same spot for easy access), and then I hear his steps into the kitchen, where he pops ice out of the tray and turns on the faucet. The sound of the running water and cracking ice makes me thirsty beyond belief, and it's the best feeling of relief I have ever felt when he helps prop me up into a sitting position on the pillows and holds the glass to my dry chapped lips. His finger brushes them briefly and accidentally, and I savor the feeling in the moment before he jerks it away, pretending it didn't happen.

He asks me if I can put the pills in my mouth myself, and I can, but I find myself lying just so I can feel his fingers on my lips again. He places one, then two in my mouth, and I love how it feels when his fingers rub so gently over my lips. He holds the glass of water to my mouth again, and I swallow the pills, marveling at how I never realized how romantic being taken care of can be. Yes, romantic; I can't help feeling that I'm falling for Roger, even though he's my best friend and a guy and that's wrong wrong wrong and yet so right. I know it's right, because when I felt his fingers against my lips, callused but soft, it was like ten cages of butterflies were released into my stomach, and their wings were fluttering against my stomach and my chest and my heart and that's what butterfly kisses really are. I long for him to touch me again in that gentle way, so different from how he usually is: rough and crude and loud and mean. I don't know how a man I knew so well can suddenly change and be so soothing and gentle and so fucking appealing. I want to be sick forever so he'll never change back, and it's like a fairy-tale, where a frog turns into Prince Charming.

"Roger, I…" I begin to say, but he holds a finger against my lips.

"Shh, don't talk. Just try to sleep, and you'll feel better when you wake up." I pull my hand out of my cocoon and hold it out, and he grasps it, even though I didn't think he would, and his strong-but-so-gentle thumb strokes the back of my hand like the strings of his guitar. "Shhh," he whispers, even though I'm not talking, and I drift to sleep to the gentle strums and "Shhh"s.

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Mark is, dare I say, beautiful when he's asleep. God, he's beautiful. I can't hide the fact that I am very, very, very attracted to him from myself anymore. After the past few nights since that day that I found myself admiring Mark, I have benn dreaming of him in various states of undress and kissing me, touching me, holding me, making love to me, and I can't deny it. I blamed it on horniness, on raging hormones, on anything that seemed plausible, but I realized when I woke up this morning that there is no blame needed; it's no one's fault because it's not a problem. I am in love with Mark, and that's the way it is, and I'll pray to whatever's out there that he feels the same way.

This morning I found myself looking for excuses to touch him. I felt his forehead for fever more than I had to, and was eager to check for warmth on his cheeks and neck. I savored wiping that stuff off his eyes, and even though eye-crud is generally rather disgusting, on Mark it's nothing but adorable in some strange way. I loved feeding him those pills and holding the glass to his mouth just because it gave me license to touch those lips I've only dreamt about. And holding his hand just felt so right and good. But I want more. I want to wrap my arms around him and kiss those warm lips and gently undress him and do god-knows-what else. I want to keep him warm on cold nights and snuggle with him while we watch TV. I want to hear him say and moan and shout my name in every different possible way, and do the same to his name. There's so much I want and that I know I can't have.

His eyes flutter open, and for a minute when he's gazing at me with that pale blue it's like he's looking into me and not just at me. A faint smile plays across his lips, and I just want to kiss him right then and there, but I can't. "Better?" I ask softly, and he nods. He's wiggling out of the sheets, and I help to pull them off of him. He's sweaty from his breaking fever, and he glistens in the thin beam of sun that squeezed past the towels I had draped over the window. I leave the room so he can change into fresh clothes, and soon he emerges.

Still almost no words pass between us, but that's alright, because it's so much more tender a moment when we don't speak. He walks up to me and I come so close to grazing his lips with mine, but then I think better of it and walk away to make him some tea. He sits on the stool by our pitiful kitchen counter and watches me heat a mug of water on the hot-plate and then steep the teabag in it (Jasmine, his favorite) and add one, two cubes of sugar from the little sugar-bowl Angel gave us last summer, shortly before she got sick. It occurs to me then that I'm wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxers, but it doesn't bother me. I set the tea down in front of him, sit on a stool opposite him, and watch him slowly sip at it. His glasses fog up, and I reach across to softly rub the steam away. He smiles and sips more, and I do the same thing again. He starts to laugh, the first sound he's made since he woke up. I laugh along with him, and then we just sit there and look at each other.

The next things go by in slow-motion, but also happen so smoothly that I don't really think about them. He sets his tea aside as he reaches his hand across the counter to cup my cheek and we both lean forward until our noses brush across each other and our lips ever-so-gently meet in a soft, lingering kiss. The lids of my eyes fall as I tilt my head and put a hand to his cheek, pulling him closer. We stay with our lips just barely touching for a moment and both our eyes slowly open, and as I gaze into his eyes, I find nothing but love and wonder in them. I close my eyes again and press my lips a bit harder into his; our kiss is desperate now, and my other hand moves to the back of his neck and pulls him in. His tongue pushes past my lips into my mouth and he does things that I never thought he could do with his tongue, and his hand tangles in my hair. We don't hear the door open, but we do hear something drop to the floor, and we quickly move away from each other and turn to find Mimi standing in the doorway.

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Sick!Marky Translations: "Can... can you get me a cloth and soak it in hot water? I think I'm sick..." "My... my eyes..." "Claritin" "And some ice water"


	4. By My Side

Disclaimer: Rent and By My Side belong to Jonny and Stephen Schwartz/Peggy Gordon/Jay Hamburger

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AN: This one is going to be flangsty (aka fluffy-angst) And the lyrics to the song are beautiful, so I couldn't resist posting them all

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_Where are you going?  
Where are you going?  
Can you take me with you?  
For my hand is cold and needs warmth  
Where are you going?  
Far beyond where the horizon lies  
And the land sinks into mellow blueness  
Oh please, take me with you  
Let me skip the road with you  
I can dare myself  
I can dare myself  
I'll put a pebble in my shoe  
And watch me walk  
I can walk  
I can walk!  
I shall call the pebble Dare  
We will walk, we will talk together  
We will talk about walking  
Dare shall be carried  
And when we both have had enough  
I will take him from my shoe, singing  
"Meet your new road!"  
Then I'll take your hand  
Finally glad  
That you are here  
By my side  
By my side_  
-By My Side, Peggy Gordon and Jay Hamburger, Godspell

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"Mimi!" Roger says, pulling away from me, and suddenly I can feel the cold, although before I was warm, despite wearing only an undershirt and boxers. I can still feel his lips against mine, and I stroke them with my fingers, still unable to believe what just happened. It happened so fast and felt so good, and then Mimi had to come barging in. Mimi the destroyer. "It's… it's not what it looks like!" He shouts. What is that supposed to mean? Was this just an accident? Oh, please, God, don't let this have been an accident. If Roger loves me, I'll go kosher again, I swear, and I'll stop coveting and oh God, I would do anything to feel his lips brushing mine again and taste his sweet, sweet kisses.

"What am I supposed to think, Roger, when I walk in to find you and your best friend making out in your underwear?"

"You are the one who broke up with me, if I recall, so shouldn't I be allowed to find someone else?" Oh, thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I should be worried that Mimi just caught us and is pissed, but I'm too busy silently rejoicing, until she yells again.

"Who said I broke up with you?"

"You moved out after calling me a paranoid asshole; what was I supposed to think?"

"Fuck you, Roger Davis, fuck you!" She grabbed her purse from off the floor and ran out of the loft in a huff. I could hear her heels clacking down the stairs and her door slam.

Roger reached out a finger and ran it down my jaw line. "I'm sorry, Mark," he whispered. "I didn't want it to happen this way. Mimi… she's going through a lot of shit right now. Shit I can't deal with. And I… I love _you_, Mark. I love you. I have for about… half a week now. I'm scared now, scared that you don't like me and now you'll think I'm creepy and…" I cut him off with a kiss and reentwine my fingers into his soft hair.

"I know," I whisper, my lips still barely pressing into his. "And I do, too." He grasps the back of my neck to pull me into another searing kiss, and we're back where we left off, but this time it's his tongue that snakes between my lips and I moan into his mouth. Unexpectedly, he breaks the kiss off again, leaving my mouth feeling empty. He pushes his stool away from the counter and walks to the couch.

"I can't do this to you, Mark," he says quietly, turning away from me and sitting down. I follow him and sit behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off. "I don't know how far I'm going to go. I get out of control. I can't make you sick, Mark. I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

I begin to knead his tense shoulders and lean my head over his shoulder. "I won't get sick, Roger. We… we'll be careful. And if I get sick… I'm with you, and you're by my side." He says nothing. "Please, Roger… you have no idea how much I need you." He turns his head, and I can see tears glistening at the corners of his eyes.

"Okay," he says. "I trust you." I lean back and he leans forward and our lips meet thousands of times, and we stay like that on the couch for what feels like an eternity, until with one last gentle kiss he gets up. "We have to tell them," he says, heading into his room. "Get dressed." He calls everyone, telling them to go to the Life Café, and then when we're both ready to go, we entwine our fingers and walk, side-by-side like this, to the café.

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When everyone sees us holding hands, at first Mark blushes and tries to pull away, but I grip his hand tighter and kiss his cheek. "Guys, um, Mark and I… um… well, we…" Maureen practically jumps on us before I can finish, and she seems proud, somehow. She squeezes us both with hugs, and I feel reassured that someone is accepting us. Everyone else just stares, except Mimi, who is shooting a death glare at Mark. "So… yeah." I squeeze Mark's hand tighter to reassure him. The hostess leads us to our table, and we sit in an awkward silence for a while.

"So…" Collins ventures. "When did you…"

"This morning," Mark answers, a bit shaky. I stroke my thumb along the back of his hand the way I did earlier, when he was sick. Suddenly the ice cracks apart and we're barraged with questions, most of which we manage to answer. Mimi is silent the whole time, glaring mostly at Mark, as if it's his fault that he is the most beautiful person I have ever known. Finally we're done eating, and Joanne pays and we go our separate ways. Unfortunately, Mimi has to go the same way as us.

"So," she says, "You… don't like girls anymore?"

"I don't know," I say softly. "I guess I still do."

"But you like boys?"

"Yeah, I guess…" It hasn't really occurred to me since I kissed Mark that I'm gay now. Mark isn't a guy, Mark is Mark. But I guess I am, or at least bi. I never thought that would apply to me. Of course, I never thought I would love Mark.

"And if I offered… you wouldn't take me back?"

"Mimi, if you still don't remember, you broke up with me. You can't expect me to come crawling to you when you are the one who's at fault here. If you want me, you shouldn't have left me and expected that this time I would come back. We've been through this too many fucking times, and you never change, and you say that this time you'll quit for me, but you end up blowing the man to get smack because I took your drug money. It's the same every time, and I am through. We're over, Mimi. Get that through your head. Over." As if to prove a point, I lean over to kiss Mark. We reach the apartment, and we ascend the stairs. She goes into her apartment and slams the door, and a flight of stairs later, we're in ours.

I collapse on the couch and Mark sits down next to me, holding my hand and leaning his head on my shoulder. I stroke his hair, and we stay like this, hand in hand, side by side.


End file.
